


Aviator's Paradise

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: The Wars We Championed [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Britain doesn't know it, but there are two of King Arthur's knights, born before their King is ready to return from Avalon, willing to take to the skies to defend her.Kay only makes promises he can keep. Bedivere knows what a sacrifice means.
Relationships: Bedivere/Kay (Arthurian)
Series: The Wars We Championed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745632
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Aviator's Paradise

_January 1941, somewhere in London_

Kay screamed and swept the picture frames off the mantle with one swipe of his arm, frames and their glass protectors shattering as they clattered against the wood floor. Shards bit into the back of his hand and forearm, causing tiny rivulets of blood to form before the blood formed minuscule rivers that traced the creases in his skin.

In his other hand, he clutched the dog tags of the only man he would have laid down his life for.

He sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. The roughness of the cord made one side of his face itch while the blood made the other side feel wrong.

A sob broke down the dam that had been holding his sorrow at bay.

How the hell had he fallen so far?

–

_Summer, 1940, somewhere near RAF Redhill_

Bedivere heard the crunching of Kay's boots stop abruptly.

“There's nothing in this bloody field,” Bedivere muttered, “Come on.”

He turned around to see Kay staring up at the sky, eyes sharp but unfixed, performing quick scans of the gray clouds.

“I cannot imagine a time worse than this,” Kay told the pilot as he resumed walking, “As far as war goes, I mean. The solitude is nice.”

“We're fucking night fighters and we're stuck doing foot patrols in the middle of fuck-all,” Bedivere's shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter.

“I think it's a nice way of saying 'get off base for a few hours,' really,” Kay suggested, “Still, if those damned Germans did decide to bomb a field, we would be hard-pressed to see them before they were on top of us.”

“Clouds are a bit low,” Bedivere conceded, “Still. You say you don't see it getting worse every war.”

“Every war we haven't missed,” Kay shook his head as if to clear it, “Do you ever wonder how history will remember us? Britain and her role in this war, I mean.”

“If we had newsreels back when arrows were the closest thing to asymmetrical warfare, maybe I'd wonder then,” Bedivere admitted, “I've seen enough history to know that's up to whoever wins.”

Kay hummed, a sound caught somewhere between thoughtful and disappointed.

“Our fellow pilots are sure we're going to win,” Bedivere continued, “They treat victory as if it goes tot he side committing the fewest crimes against humanity.”

“They treat the Beaus as if they're the key to winning,” Kay argued. Bedivere turned around to face his navigator, a wildness in his eyes betraying his otherwise calm demeanor. Kay offered a small smile that caused Bedivere's edges to soften.

“We're fighting people who would see people like us wiped off the face of the planet,” Bedivere gestured between them, “Losing isn't an option.”

“There will always be people who want to wipe us off the face of the planet,” Kay countered, “I can't say it's the thought of Arthur's return I fight for this time.”

“You never fought for the crown,” Bedivere stole a quick kiss, his lips brushing against Kay's face.

Kay chuckled, a low thing, and nudged against Bedivere.

“Say that much louder and you might as well accuse me of treason,” Kay cautioned.

“It's just us,” Bedivere spread his arms wide and spun in a tight circle to emphasize his point.

Kay kept walking, head swiveling as he scanned the horizon in every direction to assess Bedivere's claim.

“You took up arms for a man, the first time,” Bedivere told him, “and every time after that, you were willing to lay down your life for an idea.”

“All wars are about ideas,” Kay corrected, “Some wars just have a clearer face attached to them to make them less esoteric.”

Bedivere let out a whining groan. “You can't just say things like that and not be ready to deliver a university lecture.”

“If that's what you'd like,” Kay's reply was effortless. Bedivere tugged at Kay's wrist, a silent plea.

“It's just us,” Bedivere repeated.

“My – our – first lives,” Kay didn't resist the tug, “I stood with Arthur.”

“We all did,” Bedivere pulled Kay into his arms.

“But there's a reason it's you I always find,” Kay finished, “I'd take on anything for you.”

“You make bold promises,” Bedivere purred.

“I only make promises I plan on keeping,”Kay's answer was a growl. He shivered and his hands fumbled with the buttons of Bedivere's uniform.

Bedivere stilled Kay's hands. Longing brown eyes met electric green and Kay shoved Bedivere and shoved again. Bedivere let himself fall on his back, a small laugh escaping on impact.

“You asked,” Kay murmured as he undid his belt. Bedivere's hands trembled as he tried to undo his belt buckle to loose his own slacks.

“Let me,” Kay shoved Bedivere's hands aside.

“Pushy,” Bedivere teased.

“Would you have me docile?” Kay returned the teasing.

“Nothing about you has ever been docile,” Bedivere noted. Kay yanked at the pilot's pants, desperate, hungry, needy.

Bedivere gasped and arched his back.

What followed was a blur of fabric and teeth and spit and bruising, grasping hands. Kay drew blood, his fingernails digging into Bedivere's hips as he came with a cry that would have alerted everyone else in the hall back in the barracks.

Bedivere broke skin, too, greedy nails clawing at Kay's back, wordlessly begging for more – more Kay, more friction, more pain, more pleasure, more of anything he could coax out of his navigator.

Kay slumped forward, his stomach against Bedivere's cock offering the friction the larger man craved. Bedivere managed a few thrusts before his own cry created a belated echo of Kay's.

As the world came back to Kay, his own labored breathing seemed too loud. Blood rushed in his ears, heart pounding, vision blurred before coming back into sharp focus.

“One day we won't have to hide,” Bedivere promised. Kay brought Bedivere's hand up to his lips and kissed each knuckle in turn.

“I believe you,” Kay whispered.

They laid in the field until the sun began to disappear below the horizon. Kay was the first to disentangle himself. Bedivere complained the entire time.

“We have to be in the air soon,” Kay told him as if he needed reminding.

“Once upon a time being above the earth like that would have been beyond even my wildest fantasy,” Bedivere sighed as he put his pants back on, “and here I am complaining.”

“Fucking you is always a wild fantasy,” Kay said without thinking. Bedivere swatted him, laughing.

“You know why you're my navigator?” Bedivere asked as they began their walk back to base.

“Because we got along almost unnaturally well during training and you can't read a map?” Kay guessed.

“Well, on a mundane level,” Bedivere jostled Kay, “But on a less mundane level, you've always been the soul mine uses as a guide star.”

“There is no one else I would rather play Polaris for,” Kay told him.

“I remembered,” Bedivere heard himself saying, “Before you came along this life, I remembered some things.”

“But seeing me again just brought the flood?” Kay guessed. Bedivere nodded. “Me, too,” Kay admitted.

“It was like everything I've been through, every life, every death, was there, waiting to be recalled,” Bedivere added, “and seeing you...my soul recognized you, I swear.”

“I know,” Kay said quietly, “I may be your Polaris, but you are my light.”

Bedivere smiled and let himself walk as close to the other man as he could manage without throwing them both off balance. Kay periodically bumped his shoulder into Bedivere's, desperate to keep some form of contact.

The walk back was over too soon, the solitude and unspoken dreams shoved aside in the chaos of getting ready.

“You two,” someone they didn't recognize but was clearly talking to them, “in the air five minutes ago.”

“Sir,” Bedivere nodded. Kay saluted and they broke into a run, flight suits finding their way to them and on, an automatic process.

“What's going on?” Kay asked another navigator.

“Reports of an incoming fleet,” the other navigator answered, “Orders are -”

“Shoot them out of the sky before they shoot you out of the sky,” Kay finished, “Godspeed.”

When they were out of earshot of anyone else, Bedivere said, “Which god?”

“Which ever one can keep up with planes,” Kay laughed.

Getting the plane into the air was as natural to either of them as breathing at this point. Kay's attention split itself evenly between map, radio, and Bedivere.

“I can't believe I'd rather be on the ground,” Bedivere griped.

“I can,” Kay laughed, “Just shoot like you do damned near every night and get us back to the ground we're supposed to be on and I'll make you forget you're even on the ground.”

“I'm going to hold you to that,” Bedivere informed him.

“I'm going to hold you to a number of things,” Kay promised.

Whatever Bedivere was going to say was cut off with a sharp, “Three minutes!” over the radio.

“Visibility low,” a second call came, “Clouds and fog are thick out here.”

“No shit,” Kay rolled his eyes, “It's like we live in Britain or something.”

“One day you're going to say that on the all-call channel,” Bedivere warned him.

“I'm certified,” Kay waved him off, “You ready?”

“I was ready the moment I leveled off,” Bedivere assured him.

“We're over the channel,” Kay informed him.

“Noticed,” Bedivere gritted his teeth.

The plans jerked and the left engine sputtered.

“Seriously?” Kay roared, “This is a horrible way to die.”

“Call us in!” Bedivere screamed.

“Ground, this is Tech Sergeant Fitz, left engine out, plane going down,” Kay kept his voice level.

“Fitz this is ground, both of you get out of there and we'll send a boat,” the radio said.

“You heard the man,” Kay said as he unfastened his restraint.

“We don't have time,” Bedivere was panicking.

“Like hell we don't,” Kay reached forward to undo Bedivere's restraints, “Open the damned plane and use your chute.”

Bedivere yanked his dog tags off and pressed them into Kay's hand. Kay struggled against Bedivere's unwavering determination.

“If I don't keep it level neither of us make it,” Bedivere's eyes were fixed straight ahead.

“Bullshit,” panic crept into Kay's voice, “Bedivere, now.”

“Kay!” Bedivere snapped as he flipped the switches to open the cockpit, “Kay, go.”

“Bedi -” Kay was cut off by the sharp, painful blast of wind that ripped him from the plane.

–

It wasn't until two days later, holed up in a cramped hospital room with five other men that was meant for one person, Kay would start to ask questions about how everything went down.

They both could have made it, that much he was sure of. Why Bedivere made the sacrifice play, how he managed to get his dog tags off like that, why the seconds dragged out like days as he replayed everything over and over in his head, why the plane didn't go down faster – hell if he could puzzle any of that out.

He had broken several ribs somewhere during his landing, shattered his kneecap. He would be discharged with a pension and full honors, he was told. The pilot hadn't been recovered yet, they told him, but the search for the plane was still ongoing as time and conditions permitted.

An ever-rotating cast of nurses and a small handful of doctors came and went, each telling him it didn't look like he would develop pneumonia, all of them asking questions – was he sure he had a flat to go back to, did he have anything to collect from base, was there any family that he could stay with? (Yes, no, no.)

The months he spent between the hospital and rehabilitation for his leg – which he insisted was fine – blurred into one single stretch of white walls and a void of thoughts. They did not make him shave his head, so he let it grow. It was a small, silent act of rebellion against the institution that took Bedivere from him.

He realized, somewhere along the line, they were keeping him more to make sure he wasn't going to off himself as soon as he was alone for more than five minutes. He should have been offended, the still very much alive part of his mind told him he should take offense. That same part of his brain told him his rebellion was strange and misguided.

He didn't have the energy to listen to either point.

The return to his London flat was a quiet affair. He had lived alone before the RAF, before Bedivere, and alone he was living again.

He only had a sack of belongings, and even then it was only partly full, slung over his shoulder as he unlocked the door. It swung open with a creak. Light filtered through the closed curtains, faint beams offering minimal illumination.

He stepped in and surveyed the one-bed flat. It was untouched, by some miracle, had been untouched for near three years. Dust floated in the beams of light and the air was stale.

He ran his index finger across the kitchen counter, a trail of less-dusty highlighting how badly the place needed to be cleaned.

“Oh, you're back dearie,” a voice came from the doorway.

“I am Mrs. Miller,” Kay recognized the voice. It belonged to the elderly woman who lived across the hall and three doors down. Her husband had died before Kay moved into the building, and she found the flat much easier to take care of than the house they'd raised all their children in. Less space, she said. Kay had thought, at one point, she meant less space to take care of.

He realized, quite suddenly, she meant less space for memories to creep into.

Kay didn't turn around to face her. Couldn't turn around to face her.

“You were gone for so long,” she was still talking, “I was so worried about you, young sir, and it's such a relief to see you here again. You get unpacked and I will be by with supper at five.” Her tone was gentle but left no room for argument.

“Yes ma'am,” Kay answered reflexively.

Supper would be good. Supper might keep him out of his own head.

He heard her footsteps retreat, slower and with a more pronounced shuffle than they'd carried three years ago.

Kay set his bag down where he stood and looked around. It was his flat, sure, but it felt like it belonged to a stranger.

The door to his bedroom was still shut, as he had left it. The couch was slightly faded and seemed to sag a little, the armchair looked comically oversized compared to the chairs he'd spent the last three years sitting on.

The pictures on the mantle – little framed pieces of art he'd bought on impulse when he was nineteen in hopes of making it look more like a home – seemed just plain out of place.

He dug Bedivere's dog tags out of his pocket and ran the leather between his fingers. He had, by some miracle, kept them with him through everything.

Even if Bedivere was found, there would be no identification.

Kay screamed and swept the picture frames off the mantle with one swipe of his arm, frames and their glass protectors shattering as they clattered against the wood floor. Shards bit into the back of his hand and forearm, causing tiny rivulets of blood to form before the blood formed minuscule rivers that traced the creases in his skin.

In his other hand, he clutched the dog tags of the only man he would have laid down his life for.

He sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. The roughness of the cord made one side of his face itch while the blood made the other side feel wrong.

A sob broke down the dam that had been holding his sorrow at bay.

He could not tell how long he had been curled on the floor, sobbing like he had been broken and would never be whole again, when he realized three people were surrounding him, talking in hushed voices.

Mrs. Miller was the only voice he recognized. A strange hand was stroking his hair.

“I,” Kay croaked.

“Easy,” a voice that belonged to the hand stroking his head said, “easy Sir.”

Kay shivered and tried to sit up. The hand stroking his hair moved to press on his shoulder. Kay could make out someone sitting cross-legged next to his head, but no more.

“Easy,” the voice repeated, “Son, can you fetch him some water?”

“Sure da,” a much younger voice said.

“Get a cup from ours,” the voice said, “No offense, Sir, but I doubt you want to drink out of anything here.”

A small, overwhelmed laugh escaped Kay. It turned into a sob and then every sound he could make died in his throat.

The boy's hurried footsteps faded as he went to where ever theirs was.

“Kay,” the voice closest to him said, “Oh, Kay, what happened?”

Kay turned to look at the stranger. A flicker of awareness managed to stick in his mind, the picture of the stranger next to him fading, replaced with a memory of his King's champion.

“Lance,” Kay wrenched his entire body to sit up, “Lancelot, is it really you?”

“I fear so,” Lancelot grasped Kay's bloodied hand with his own clean hands.

The boy returned with a glass of tap water, spilling drops as he walked. Lancelot took it and held it steady for Kay to drink out of. Kay's hands shook as he tried to take the glass.

“I -” Kay faltered, hands just shy of the glass.

“Here,” Lancelot offered, holding the cup to Kay's lips. He tipped it back slowly, careful not to wind up pouring the glass all over Kay. He put the cup on the floor next to him when Kay pulled back.

“What's happened, daddy?” a small voice asked.

“A lot's happened,” Lancelot sighed, “Come here.” He waved the boy in and the boy sat on his lap. To Kay's best guess, the child looked to be maybe four or five but had something about him that carried untold centuries along with him.

Lancelot wrapped his arms around the boy and held him close to his chest.

“Does he know?” the boy tried to whisper, and failed in the way all children do when attempting the task.

“I believe so,” Lancelot answered, “What happened, Kay?”

Kay found himself telling Mrs. Miller, Lancelot, and the boy – Galahad, he realized – everything he remembered. Every life, saving the intimate memories with Bedivere for himself.

“He does remember,” Galahad said, voice full of awe, “What does having four of us here mean, daddy?”

“Four?” Kay asked as he looked to Mrs. Miller, “Morgause.”

“Aye, boy,” she smiled, “Seems we're all early again.”

“There's never been this many of us, has there?” Galahad asked, eyes fixed on Kay.

“I don't know,” Lancelot shook his head, “Can you hold off on questions until after supper?”

“I can try,” Galahad pouted.

“That's my boy,” Lancelot squeezed him a little tighter, “Can you be a lad and go get us some bandages and antiseptics and tweezers from the shop across the street?”

“Sure!” Galahad wiggled and Lancelot released him. Lancelot produced a few notes from his pocket and sent the boy off.

Once Galahad was out of earshot, Lancelot turned to Kay and asked, “He wasn't just your pilot, was he?”

“He was never just my anything,” Kay exhaled. He ran his hands through his hair, determined not to start sobbing again so soon. Lancelot's face was so full of empathy that Kay's resolve didn't hold up against the level of genuine care the once-champion was capable of.

“I'll go get a broom,” Morgause said, “You boys figure out what you need.” She walked off, footsteps still shuffling.

Kay tried to take a deep breath, but all that came of it was another sob. Lancelot guided Kay's head into the center of his chest and offered slow, soothing strokes down Kay's back as the once-navigator tried to purge his soul to its core.

Galahad returned with the supplies and Lancelot set to picking glass from Kay's hand, cleaning the wounds, and bandaging the worst of them. Morgause and Galahad cleaned up what Kay's moment of rage had scattered, then moved on to cleaning his kitchen.

“You don't -” Kay tried to tell them they didn't need to clean his flat.

“Hush,” Morgause told him. He didn't argue.

Kay laid down on the floor again, curled into himself, Bedivere's dog tags still clutched in his hand. Lancelot had not tried to remove or otherwise move them during the cleaning process.

“If they find him they won't even be able to identify him,” Kay muttered, rubbing the leather discs between his thumb and forefinger.

Lancelot put a hand on Kay's shoulder and applied just enough pressure Kay could tell he meant to be reassuring.

–

_Summer 1945, somewhere in London_

“Fuck,” Kay muttered, looking over the vegetable side dish he had said would be on the table for Sunday dinner.

Morgause, Lancelot, and Galahad would be along soon, each with a part of the dinner. Kay knew he was better at directing kitchens than actually cooking, and had settled on something easy, or so he had hoped.

Kay threw the rag he had been using to clean the last of the detritus left by the pot that had overflowed while he was attempting to boil some potatoes and onions.

“Can't even boil some damned vegetables right,” he muttered, “They'll have to do.”

He set to chopping them into smaller pieces and realized almost right away he should have done that before he started boiling.

He had settled into a routine – work at the shop across the street, supper with Lancelot, Galahad, and Morgause most nights, correspondence courses to earn a degree nights and weekends. He stayed as busy as he could handle and kept his thoughts as blank as he could manage.

Lancelot opened up about Galahad – a wife, this time, but she'd died not terribly long after Galahad was born. He'd moved into Kay's building less than a month after Kay had left. As Galahad grew, so did Lancelot's ability to recall his past lives.

Kay gave up the slicing and put them all back into the strainer. He sighed and tried to figure what to do with them.

Morgause knew all along, but feared forcing Kay to remember would do more harm than good.

Galahad was able to express that he remembered almost as soon as he learned to talk. Both Lancelot and Morgause assumed it was being brought up so close to the both of them.

Souls recognized souls.

Kay turned his attention back to the dish he'd planned on serving them in. He realized, belatedly, his efforts to not think at all were having effects on his basic functioning.

All four of them avoided talking about the ones they missed, the ones they would have to spend another lifetime hoping for.

They read the newspaper together on Sundays, went for a walk together on Monday evenings after supper when the weather permitted, and played cards Tuesdays through Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays were open to the whims of the small found family.

Twice a month, they had a proper Sunday roast dinner together.

Kay decided placing what he had in a serving dish and sprinkling it with salt and pepper would be the best way to handle things. Some fresh herbs, if they were still fresh, maybe. He knew he'd bought some earlier in the week but could not find them to even check on them to save his life.

A knock at the door shook him from his task at hand.

“In!” he called, not taking the rest of his attention away from his search. He heard the door swinging open, a result of the years of abandonment no amount of repairs could fix.

Still, the door worked, so why replace the hinges?

“So this is the right address.”

Kay recognized that voice.

Kay would recognize that voice across lifetimes.

“Bedivere!” Kay cried. He crossed his flat in three steps and crushed Bedivere against his entire body. Bedivere returned the embrace with equal furiosity.

“I heard a scream,” Lancelot came running down the hall, Galahad at his heels.

Lancelot stopped before he reached Kay's doorway.

“Bedivere,” Lancelot breathed.

“In, in,” Morgause shuffled along, “I want to hear, too.”

Kay disentangled himself only enough to lead Bedivere onto the couch. They curled into and around each other, tears streaming down both of their faces. Gentle touches everywhere they could reach punctuated Bedivere's story.

He had landed the plane in the water rather than crashed it but was almost immediately taken captive. Wounded and beyond disoriented, he did not know where he wound up.

He survived five years of being shuffled from camp to camp. He watched more men die than he could count, hunger and torture and disease claiming life after life.

After the war ended, he had been set free with no way to get home.

“My Polaris,” he whispered to Kay.

Kay had one hand on Bedivere's cheek and the other on the small of his back. He had, over the course of the story, pulled Bedivere into his lap, sideways, Bedivere's side flush against Kay's chest.

Bedivere was frail, half starved and probably in need of medical attention. He had managed to talk his way onto a cargo boat headed for England, and from there onto trains, into cars, even on the back of a bicycle.

“You mentioned once you had a flat in London, not terribly far from the Thames,” Bedivere finished his story, “so I decided to go to London and see if I could find you.”

“You're just in time for supper,” Morgause informed him.

“A quick supper,” Kay added.

“Then we catch up proper,” Bedivere purred.

“What do you mean proper?” Galahad asked, “Isn't this catching up proper?”

Lancelot made a strangled noise before telling his son, “Sometimes two people need to catch up alone.”

Kay chuckled. The sound came from deep in his chest, a spark of hope ready to ignite everything in Kay that Bedivere reached.

“Galahad,” Morgause addressed the boy, “will you be a duckling and help me carry the roast?”

“Duckling?” Galahad asked. Lancelot nudged him, “Oh! Yes, I will!”

Morgause rose and waved Galahad along. Galahad all but ran towards Morgause's flat and the roast.

“I've got puddings and some roast veg,” Lancelot said, “though I can't promise much on taste.”

“I mangled the potatoes and onion,” Kay told him.

“It's going to be amazing,” Bedivere assured them.

Lancelot offered a small smile before he went to fetch his contributions.

“Just in time for supper,” Bedivere repeated when it was just the two of them.

“My life has been empty,” Kay confessed, “I have lived, but it has been the monotony of not stopping because I can't break like I did.”

“Tell me after supper,” Bedivere rested his forehead against Kai's, “I am so thankful you made it. That you're here and that you're here.”

Kay clung to Bedivere like a lifeline.

Supper was the fastest roast dinner the little family had ever had. Lancelot rushed Galahad out the door despite the boy's protests that they needed to help clean up.

Kay locked the door behind them.

“We have so much time to make up for,” Kay sunk to his knees in front of where Bedivere was sitting. He put his head on Bedivere's lap. Bedivere slid down onto the floor and they found their way into a knot-like embrace.

Kay knew that, this time, the sobs escaping him weren't going to damage him, weren't going to empty his soul.

Through his tears, he found life again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hooboi this was only supposed to be about a thousand words but I blew right past that one.
> 
> I am not a historian, but I did my best.
> 
> They're in the No. 219 Squadron RAF, if you're wondering!


End file.
